The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (16 page)

She sat motionless, unaware of the door opening. Fanny was beside her, her voice soft with compassion, urging her to rise and come away upstairs. “For you must make an effort, you know you must. Only let us be away from here. I have ordered the carriage, you must control yourself and say all that is proper to Lady Milton, you have to do that, you cannot leave without that.”

“I know,” Alethea said, moistening her lips with her tongue; they felt dry and swollen. Her eyes were dry, too, she hadn't shed a single tear. She would not break down here, she would not let anyone see how keenly she felt Penrose's betrayal. The mere sound of his name inside her head brought a pang to her heart and she cried, “Fanny, let us go at once.”

The words echoed in her ears,
at once, at once,
and she was overwhelmed by unhappiness. The memory, the dreadful memory of her wedding night, in such stark contrast to her night of passion with Penrose, flooded into her mind, the contrast more than she could bear. Then her tired spirit at last relented, and she slid into a deep, restorative sleep, where no demons could pursue her.

 

Titus watched her curiously. He knew enough of troubled youth to sense the demons, and he felt strangely disturbed by the misery that seeped out with the involuntary tears. Just what had she been through? Was it possible that the daughter of a Mr. Darcy should have endured such suffering as was indicated by the turmoil of her dreams? He told himself that she was no doubt inclined to give into her emotions, that she had learned to let her sensibilities rule her reason, but he didn't believe it.

This young woman was, he concluded, haunted by some grim event in her past. And she was too young to realise that there was no escaping by means of any journey, however adventurous, or to however different a place, since, as her dreams looked to be telling her, one took one's problems and sorrows with one. A harsh or unkind husband, probably; well, there was no cure for that. It all went to show what a minefield marriage was, a trap, indeed.

It took them eight hours altogether to reach the top of the pass, and Alethea blinked as the chaise rolled to a standstill and Titus roused her from her slumbers.

Blinking, and brushing away the traces of sleep from her eyes, Alethea looked out over the vastness of the prospect before her. The view took her breath away, and the brilliance of sun and snow, and the majesty of the scene, made her head reel. For a moment, time seemed to still, and an extraordinary sense of peace and of oneness with nature and these awe-inspiring mountains came over her. The past faded from her mind, as though a cleansing wind swept through her, and for the first time in many, many months, she felt at one with herself and the world.

“We are lords of the earth here, are we not?” Titus remarked as he came to stand beside her.

She noticed, with the clarity that had suddenly come to her, that his eyes were elsewhere, dwelling on Emily's radiant face as she leant close to her husband, exclaiming with delight at the majesty of the sight laid out before them.

“How the ugliness of the world vanishes from such a height,” she said.

Mrs. Vineham had swathed her face in a green veil, to ward off the sun. “You will become so very brown if you stand in the sun like that, Emily. There is nothing worse for the complexion.”

Lord Lucius had adopted a wide-brimmed hat to shade his painted face. “Let us return to the chaise, out of this blinding light.”

“Those workmen have red eyes,” Alethea said to Titus as they climbed back into the coach.

“It is the sun, the glare of the sun that makes their eyes so sore,” Titus said. “The ugliness of the world doesn't entirely vanish, you see. The Swiss pay a heavy price for guarding the ways over the high mountains.”

“For God's sake, Manningtree, you grow sentimental,” Warren said. “They are only peasants, after all, and I dare say they are glad of work, even if it be up on the peaks in the dazzle of the sun. And if I were you, sir,” he added, speaking to Alethea, “I would not look down at the path we are to take on the downward journey.”

Alethea, filled with a new energy and courage, looked out of the window without apprehension. “It is very steep and looks extremely perilous.”

Warren eyed her with disfavour. “There is something tiresome about the buoyancy of youth, do you not agree, Manningtree?”

“We all had it once, and are sorry to lose it.”

“You may be sorry, but I prefer a rational mind, that marks danger where it exists. I have no doubt but that we shall break an axle on our descent, or have to stop to replace a pole. That is, if the horses don't bolt with us.”

“You should be travelling with Mrs. Vineham,” Titus said. “You could comfort one another with the horrid prospects ahead. You haven't mentioned bandits; I'm sure a troop of them will await our arrival on the lower slopes.”

“I need have no fear of bandits with a warrior such as you for a companion,” Warren said coldly. “I am sure you have not forgotten your skill with the sabre or the pistol, or are your fire-eating days quite behind you?”

“Bandits?” said Alethea, startled. “Do you really think so?”

“No, I do not,” said Titus, laughing despite his irritation with Warren and his needling remarks.

In the chaise carrying the servants, the subject of bandits had also been raised. Why, Figgins wondered, was that Bootle so determined to frighten Nyers, Warren's man, out of his wits? The unfortunate man was suffering terribly from the motion of the coach; he was, he had informed them all, prone to travel sickness. They had made him sit by the window, telling him to hang his head out if he felt inclined to vomit. Only Signora Lessini's abigail showed him any sympathy or kindness as he moaned and groaned his way over the pass, and even her goodwill began to run out as he set up a-wailing at the sight of the downward path.

“Come, brother, take heart,” Bootle said with an evil grin. “Don't ever you worry yourself about the dangers ahead. Aren't there bears in these parts, as well as wolves?” he added inconsequentially.

Sarah gave a squeak at that. “He's trying it on,” Figgins reassured her. Hemp, Lord Lucius's man, gave a sycophantic laugh, and Figgins glared at him. To think that, disguised as a man, she should still have to put up with leers and lascivious suggestions and seeking hands on her knee. She had found herself sitting next to him, by his contrivance, and very uncomfortable it made the first part of the journey.

Not that she hadn't been deflecting the unwanted attentions of men since she was nine years old and no more than a slip of a girl, and this weedy specimen presented no great problem. However, he was a nuisance, and she was disgusted by his open attentions, as though the danger and the journey in the carriage excused him from any normal caution or restraint on his behaviour. She had, in the inn, had her suspicions that he was cast in the same mould as his master, but there he had behaved in a more orderly way, doing no more than murmur a suggestion or two in her ear as she passed, or allow his nasty little eyes to dwell on her as she went about her duties.

And inside, she wanted to laugh; what a shock he would get if he knew who or what he was making up to! Like Miss Alethea couldn't help giggling at Lord Lucius trying to make up to her; at least this sodomite didn't paint his face and ogle at her through an eye-glass, which was what Miss Alethea had to put up with. She had been afraid more than once that her mistress was going to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation.

She had managed to keep herself very much to herself at the inn, what with having the little chamber beside Miss Alethea's one instead of sharing with two or three of the others in the servants' quarters. She ate her meals quickly, keeping mum but watching and listening with her usual inquisitiveness. You could never know too much about those whose company you were forced to keep, that was her maxim.

Now, however, in the forced closeness of the chaise, she felt she might venture some questions. She had changed places with Sarah after the first halt, and so was out of reach of Hemp's pawings and hot breath in her ear.

Bootle's tone had changed, which was odd. Having done his best to make Warren's man feel thoroughly out of sorts in mind and body, he was now oozing consolation and concern. “Let us talk of other subjects, to take our minds off the present danger and discomfort,” he said. “Mr. Figgins, you are very quiet, and we have seen little of you at the inn, so attentive as you are to your young master. Yet he does not seem so very demanding. Where are you bound for?”

“Venice.”

“To see the sights? Young gentlemen are always eager to see the sights.”

Hemp gave a cynical laugh. “Bare bosoms and gleaming thighs aplenty, if your tastes lie in that direction.”

“Which yours and your master's don't,” Figgins flashed out. “And nor do my master's, though not for the same reason. He comes to visit his family, who are respectable people.”

“Not if they live in Venice, they aren't,” said Sarah firmly. “Respectable English folk don't go a-journeying to Italy and staying in Venice.”

“That's what your mistress is doing,” Bootle pointed out.

“She isn't what I'd call respectable,” Sarah said calmly. “Like I told you before, she's husband hunting, and having had no luck in England, is trying her hand abroad.”

“She's a widow,” said Maria.

“Yes, but not a rich one, or not rich enough. She's got her eye on your master, Mr. Bootle, for he's as rich as anything, so she tells me.”

Figgins could see that for all his eagerness to start a conversation, Bootle wasn't about to discuss his master. It had been the same in the inn; he was perfectly willing to gossip about the other people in the inn, but not about Titus Manningtree.

“You know why his lordship is going to Italy,” Hemp put in. “So there's no need to go asking questions about it.”

“What his lordship says is the purpose of his journey and what it actually might be are two different things,” said Bootle.

Figgins saw that Nyers was looking more alert. He was an inveterate gossip, and this seemed to be a tit-bit that Bootle hadn't thought fit to dish up at the inn.

“It's no secret,” Hemp said, uneasy now. “He's a-visiting of Lord Byron, the poet, who is part of the time in Venice and part of the time in a palazzo in the country nearby.”

“Where he keeps company with a married woman,” said Bootle.

“Shocking,” said Sarah, her eyes huge and round.

“But that isn't the only reason for his lordship's journey, one hears,” Bootle went on. “There was some unpleasantness, was there not, with regard to Lord Sevington's middle boy? All hushed up, of course, not a word to be spoken of it.”

“So how came you to hear of it?” asked Hemp.

“I come to hear a lot of things. Lord Sevington felt that it would be best for Lord Lucius's health if he was to spend a time—a long time—abroad. And him being related to Lord Lucius and concerned about his health and having a lot of powerful friends to recommend the same removal to foreign parts as being best for Lord Lucius's health, why, his lordship heeded the advice. Which is why you are here now,” he added in silky tones.

“All lies,” said Hemp.

Nyers was looking much brighter. “I heard something about that; my master said there was some reason why Lord L was on the move. I never heard the details.”

“Mr. Warren not being the kind to confide in his gentleman's gentleman? He plays his cards close to his chest.” Bootle was sympathetic now. “It's the same with Mr. Manningtree. If I was to ask him, where are we going and for how long or why or anything of that kind, he'd give me an old-fashioned look and tell me to mind my duties and not go thinking I had any right to know anything. Mumchance, that's what our masters are, am I not right, Mr. Nyers?”

Nyers straightened in his seat. “It may be so with you, Mr. Bootle, but Mr. Warren is not such a close gentleman, and since I make all the arrangements for his travel, for our travel, I should say, it's only natural that I should know more than you seem to.”

Figgins had to give Bootle credit where credit was due. For some reason he wanted to know where Warren was going, and why, and he was going to wangle the information out of Nyers as sweet as taking the juice from an orange.

“As you say, Mr. Nyers.” Bootle didn't sound in the least convinced.

“It is as I say, Mr. Bootle. I know it all, down to the last detail. My master has business in Italy. Important business for a very important personage.”

Figgins had the impression that none of what Nyers had said so far came as news to Bootle. There must be something more that he wanted to know. Why? she wondered. Nosiness? Or did his master want the information? Miss Alethea had told her that Mr. Manningtree and Mr. Warren didn't seem to get on, although she herself wasn't sure who Mr. Manningtree would get on with, he seemed always about to lose his rag, and the way he looked at Mr. Lessini, well, it was just as well that looks never harmed anyone. Lord Lucius he seemed contemptuous of, as though his presence didn't matter to him one way or the other, which there was no reason why it should.

A spirit of mischief prompted her to join in alongside Bootle. “An important personage, Mr. Nyers? Is your master one who moves in such high circles?”

“The very highest,” Nyers said impressively. “None higher, in fact, not in the whole kingdom.”

Sarah made a pooh-poohing noise. “You're having us on, Mr. Nyers, for the highest in the land is the king, and what should Mr. Warren do for the king?”

“It is a matter of the greatest delicacy,” said Nyers with satisfaction. “It is to do with a work of art.”

“Lord, is Mr. Warren an artist, then?” said Figgins.

Nyers flushed. “He is no such thing, he is a thorough-going gentleman and you shouldn't go speaking disrespectfully of him. Artist, indeed! No, it is that the king is a great patron of the arts, which is something you would hardly know. He wishes to acquire a certain masterpiece of Italian painting, which my master happens to have heard of, and so he sends my master to obtain this painting for him.”

“And is this a great secret?” asked Bootle.

“There are others who might be interested in getting their hands on the painting, and there is some slight doubt as to the ownership of the work, so it needs a man like my master to carry out the task in a discreet way.”

“And so you go to Venice, just to bring back a painting?”

Nyers grew suddenly wary. “I never said we was bound for Venice.”

“Oh, are you not?” said Figgins. “I thought I heard Mr. Warren speak of Venice as though he was going there.”

Nyers's face relaxed. “Anyone may go to Venice. Or Milan or a dozen other Italian cities.”

“After you've been to Venice. If your master finds the picture is not there, perhaps,” said Figgins, all innocence.

“My master is not in the habit of traipsing about foreign countries in search of this or that. He knows where what he seeks is, and that is where we shall go.”

The chaise jolted, stopped, swayed, and tilted to one side as it took a very tight corner. Nyers went pale.

“It seems to me that the sooner you get to your destination, the better for your health, Mr. Nyers,” said Bootle.

“And it cannot be a moment too soon,” cried Nyers with sudden animosity. “This cursed chaise, I never travelled in anything so ill sprung. And there are four more days of such misery!”

From the flash of triumph that passed over Bootle's controlled countenance, Figgins guessed that he had gleaned the information he wanted. Four days' travel to wherever Mr. Warren was going. She'd ask Miss Alethea where that might be, but she thought it was likely to be Venice; hadn't she spoken of three or four days and nights on the road once they were across the Alps?

Bootle was a subtle one, she thought with some respect. Mr. Warren had been very cagey about his destination in Italy, vague as to plans for travelling to Rome or Florence, wherever they might be. All the others had been perfectly open about their stay. For some reason Bootle, and therefore Mr. Manningtree, wanted to know what Warren's planned movements were, and how skilfully Bootle had extracted the information.

 

Titus was growing bored with the journey; he felt restless, eager to be cracking along at a better pace. Had Bootle managed to worm anything out of Warren's man? He would rather not have to follow Warren like some sneak thief after his prey; how much better if he could discover his destination. The Titian could be anywhere in Italy, in Rome, in Verona, in Venice, in any one of a dozen cities.

He glanced over to where Alethea was now sound asleep, and frowned. Her skin was flushed from exposure to the sun, and her face, relaxed in slumber, was, he realised, quite remarkably beautiful. He had thought, when he had first met her at Wytton's wedding, that her charms lay in her vitality and humour; now he could see that it was also a matter of bone and inborn beauty. He felt a surge of vexation. She should not be out alone. She had a servant, true, but unless his wits were astray, Figgins was no more a man than Alethea was. Two innocents abroad, and in Italy, never the safest place, even for one experienced in foreign travel and used to being on guard against mishaps and dangers.

There was nothing he could do about it. It was none of his business, to be keeping an eye on stray rollicking females. If she got into trouble, it would be her own fault. Even as he said this to himself, he knew that it was false. She was the sister-in-law of one of his oldest friends, and the daughter of an acquaintance. She was of his world; could he simply abandon her to her fate?

He would have felt less annoyance if she had been less buoyant, less openly relishing the novelty and perils of the journey. Women were not intended to take such risks as she was exposing herself to.

Had he ever drawn back from risk and danger? No, but it was different for a man. A life without risk or danger became tedious, and even if he no longer felt a passionate desire to set about an enemy in war, he still wanted challenge and drama in his life. Women faced their own risks: that of childbirth and of illness and perhaps of domestic disharmony.

How tedious. For the first time in his life, he wondered if women found it tedious. Women could be intrepid. Emily was being intrepid, damn her eyes, marrying a foreigner, out of her class, out of her kin, and setting off with him to live in Rome. Yet she seemed not to worry a whit about what unforeseen hazards might lie ahead, and this perilous trip across the mountains hadn't caused her the least alarm, from what he had seen. She took it in a cooler spirit than the Darcy girl, who had embraced it with such wild delight, but she was no shrinking violet. Mrs. Vineham, now, her reaction had been more what he would have expected, a purely feminine expression of dismay and fear.